“A diseased and distorted mind is capable of hallucinations, if that is what you mean,” observed Sarria.
“Perhaps that is what I mean. Perhaps I want only the delusion, after all.”
Sarria did not reply, and there was a long silence. In the damp south corners of the walls a frog began to croak at exact intervals. The little fountain rippled monotonously, and a magnolia flower dropped from one of the trees, falling straight as a plummet through the motionless air, and settling upon the gravelled walk with a faint rustling sound. Otherwise the stillness was profound.
A little later, the priest's cigar, long since out, slipped from his fingers to the ground. He began to nod gently. Vanamee touched his arm.
“Asleep, sir?”
The other started, rubbing his eyes.
“Upon my word, I believe I was.”
“Better go to bed, sir. I am not tired. I think I shall sit out here a little longer.”
“Well, perhaps I would be better off in bed. YOUR bed is always ready for you here whenever you want to use it.”
“No—I shall go back to Quien Sabe—later. Good-night, sir.”